| Aealeiurel

 

 

 

 

<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. te

 

PATRICK'S DAY.

NORMAN GUNNISON.

 

BY 8B.

 

a. Oh! ‘tis Patrick’s Day,
And the byes are all gay,
And Biddy is cheertul and frisky,
And Jimmy Malone,
And Teddy Mahone,
Have taken a nate bit of whisky.

They are on the parade,
And each servant-maid
Is watching them under the awning;
Or out of the windy
They look at the shindy,
On Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning.

The harp and the green
On the flag may be seen,
And the bands they are playing so gayty}
And within every hand,
For the dear Ireland,
Is carried a sprig of shillelah.

‘

They are marching along,
Are the byes in a throng,
And the mud of the streets they are threading,
When one Mickey O'Toole
Cries out: “Teddy, ye fool!
On the tail of me coat ye are treading.”

Then he hits him a whack
In the miist of the back,
Whkiout the laste taste of a warning;
For Teddy well knows,
A swate day for blows
Ig Patrick’s Day in the morning.

It is Paddy’s delight,
At the morning or night,
To kick up a bit of a duel;
And the flame of his ire
Can never expire,
TI he's added his ethick to the faci.

So the sthicks nimbly fiy
On the sconce and the eye,
And the heads that are broken are many;
For Pat, when he fights,
In ending delights
Like the tar-fabled cats of Eilkenay

But his beart it is warm.
In the midst of the storm
He's not so malicious as frisky;
A shake of the hand,
And for Ould Ireland
He's washing it down with the whisky.

Let the bands gayly play
On Saint Patrick’s Day,
And weltome with plaudits ite dawning;
For Paddy’s the boy
That can hail it with joy,
Gu Saint Patrick’s Dey in the morning,

 

THE

Forrest House;

OR,
EVERARDS REPENTANCE.

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

IThe Forrest House” was commenced in No. 12. Back nam-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent.}

CHAPTER XIV.
TWO MONTHS.

Of the erty, lives of the three young
ple, Beatrice, Everard, and Rosamond, I wish to

afew pages before h ing on to the tra-
gedy which cast so dark a shadow over them
all. But there was no sign of the storm now in
the rose-tinted sky, and neither Everard nor
Beatrice eyer forgot that bright summer and
autumn when almost every day the latter drove
her ponies, or galloped on horseback, or sauntered
on foot up to the house on the hill
where the doors were always opened wide to wel-
come her, and where the judge received her as if

 

she had really the daughter he confidently
ho} ‘she would be. Ostensibly Bee came to
look a little after Rosamond and her French, and

to see she gave the right time and expres-

sion music, but somehow it often came
about that Rossie spent hours weeding her

fiower-beds, feedi er chickens, ing her
cats, of which. she eight, and playing with
the dogs, while the piano was unopened, the
French grammar untouched, and Beatrice
and Everard sat on some one. of the broad
iazzas or in the summer house. She, with
e mischief lurking in her brown eyes, toned
and softened down a little, and on her face
the same kind. of expression which had been
there in her earlier girlhood, when in the grand
old Kentucky woods, she walked with the Feejee
missionary and wondered why it was that she
felt so shy of him and could not fairly and
squarely meet the glance of his eyes without a
feeling of consciousness she could not understand.
He, happy, satisfied, and content, with no
thous as to where or into what whirlpool of
mortification and disappointment the bright,
ight-hearted girl at his side might be drifting.
e knew the bar between them—knew that so
so long as that bar existed no other love must in-
teryene, and so, though he enjoyed to the full the
dash, and sparkle, and freshness which were so
much a part of knap, he was couscious of
no deeper feeling for her than he felt for Rossie
when she came up in her garden hat and gloves
and nestl close to him and Bee, just as her kit-
ten nestled in her lap, laid her, brown little hands
sometimes on his and sometimes on Beatrice
with the freedom of a child. Neither the touch of
Rossie’s hands, nor the soft light deepening so
fast in Beatrice’s eyes and showing itself upon
her face moved him as men are moved by pretty
women and winsome ways. “I pronounce you
man and wife,’ was always in his ears, and an-
other face than that of Beatrice always in his
mind. He was bound fast, with no hope of ever
being free, but here in Rothsay, miles and miles
away from the chain which bound him, it did not
hurt so much or seem quite so hard to bear.
Josephine was not very troublesome; in fact
she had written to him twice and then she did
not ask for money, but seemed quite as anxious
as himself that their secret should be kept. from
his father until some way was found to reconcile
him to it. Possibly her reticence on the subject
of money arose from the fact that he sent ‘her
fifty dollars in his first letter written after his re-
turn to Rothsay. This large sum he had got to-
gether by the most rigid economy in his own ex-
penses and by oe interest on a few shars of rail-
road stock which a relative had left to him as her
godson. This stock for a time had been good for
ot but recently it had risen in value, so
that a dividend had been declared, and Everard
had sent the tirst proceeds to Josephine, who ac-
knowledged the gift prettily, and called him a
dear, generous darling, whom she kissed in fancy
many times. The fancied kisses did not move or
_ affect Everard in the least. The boyish love was
dead, and he did not try to resuscitate it, or build
another love where that had been; he was con-
tent with the presentias it was. His father, who
was very kind to him and seemed trying to make
amends for his former severity and harshness, had
said he was not to enter the office to study until
October. Looking in his bey’s face, he had seen
something which he mistook for weariness, and
too close application to books,and he said, “You
do not seem quite well. Your mother’s family were
not strong, so rest till October. Have a good
time with ‘Rossié and Bee, and you will be better
fitted to bone down to work when the time for it
“This t deal for Judge F
is was a great deal for Judge Forrest to say,
but he felt very indulgent toward his son, who
gradua with so much honor, and who»
seemed to be wholly upright and steady, and in a
fit of wonderful generosity he went so far as to
present him with a fine mustang, as a fitting
match to Beatrice’s fleet riding horse. This was
ust what Everard wanted, and he and Miss Bel-
mesos miles and miles together over the fine
roads and through the beautiful country in the
vicinity of Rothsay. Rosamond sometimes ac-
companied them, but she was not found of riding,
and old Bobtail, the gray mare, sent her up so
high, and seemed so out of place beside Tee's
shining black pony, and Everard’s white-faced
mustang, that she preferred remaining at home,
and so the two were left to themselves, and peo-
ple talked knowingly of what was to be, and hint-

 

|
| ed it to Rosamond, who never contradicted them,
| but by her manner gave credence to the story.
She believed implicitly that Beatrice was coming
to be mistress of the F’orrest House, and was very
happy in_the eee for next to Mr. Everard
she liked Bee Belknap better than any person in
the world. Mapy were the castles she built of
the life tobe when Everard brought his bride
home. Since Mrs. Forrest’s death so many rooms
had been shut up, and the house had seemed so
lonely and almost dreary, especially in the win-
ter, but with Bee, and her love of elegance and
luxury there, all would be changed, and Rossie
even indulged in the hope that ibly the fur-
niture in her own little room might be replaced
by better, or at least added to. hat Bee herself
thought nobody knew, for she kept her own
counsel, and laughed, and joked, and flirted, and
made fun of every manin town, Everard inclu-
ded, but still she was changed, and there was
something in her eyes andon her face which
made her more beautiful than she had ever been.
The judge, too, watched matters with an im-
mense amount of satisfaction. Years agohe had
settled it that Everard would marry Bee, and he
was sure of it now. That girl with the yellow
hair, as he always called Josephine to himeelf,
was not anything to his son, as by some intu-
ition he had once feared she might be. Everard
could never stoop to her; Everard would marry
Bee, and it might as well take place at once. He
himself had waited too long, though had he mar-
ried earlier he would not have had his Mary,
whose memory now was the sweetest thing in
his life. But Everard’s Mary was there at hand;
there was no need to wait, and just as soon as his
son was established in the oifice he meant to
pet to him, and if it were not already settled it
ould be at once, and Christmas was the time
fixed in his own mind asa fittine season for the
bridal festivities. He would fill the house with
Sia all through the holidays, and when they
ré gond thd young couple might journey as far
as Weabington, oreven Florida, ifthey liked. Then
in the spring could fit up the south side of
the house as expensively as she chose, and Ros-
sie should have the large cornér room next his
own on the north side, thus leaving the newly-
married pair as much to themselves as Cound
And so the wires were being laid, and Everard
ste eee and around them all unconsciously,
an the goods the gods provided for him,
whether in the shape of Sonatas or Rosamond
or his father’s uniform kindness toward him; and

d found him a student at last in his father’s of-
ce, where he bent every energy to mastering the
law and gaining his profession. There were no
more long rides with Beatrice, and his mustang

ed and fretted and grew unmanageable for
want of exercise. There were no more strolls in
in the leafy woods with Rossie, who gathered the
nuts, and ferns, and prasses alone, and rarely
had Everard’s society except at meal-time, when
she managed to post him with regard to all the
details of her quiet every-day life. She was read-
ing Chateaubriand’s ‘‘Atala”’ in French, and found
itrather stupid; or she was learning a new piece
of music she knew she would like; or old Blue
had six brand new kittens in his trunk up in the
garret, and she wished him to go and see them.
Everard was always interes in what inter-
ested Rosamond, and on no one did his glance
rest so kindly as on this little old-fashioned girl,
in whom there really seemed to be no guile.
Especially was he interested in her large family
of cats, and had in times past rescued more than
one of them from a bath in the river where the
stable-boy was taking it; and so he went with her
to see the six kittens in his old trunk, with Blue,
their mother, in their midst, purring her content,
and after admiring them sufficiently, and sug-
gesting that they might be improved by cutting
eir tails off just behind their ears, went baek to
his books and forgot everything in his eagerness
to advance. It was his plan to get his profession
as soon as possible, and then, taking Josephine,
go to some new place in the far West, where he
could come up with the town, and perhaps be
comparatively independent and happy. But his
future had been ordered otherwise, and suddenly,
without a note of warning, his house of cards
came down, and buried him in its ruins.

CHAPTER XY.

THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL,
Everard had been in his father’s office five
weeks or more when, on a rainy morning early
in November, just.as he was settling himself to
his books and congratulating himself upon the
luxury of a. quiet day, his father came in, and
after looking over the paper, answering one or
two letters, and poking the fire vigorously, seat-
ed himself opposite his son, and began: :

“Everard, put down your book; I want to talk
with you.”

“Yes, sir,’’ Everard replied, closing the book
and facing his father with an unaccountable
dread that something unpleasant was coming.
“It’s never my way to beat round the bush,”
the judge began; “I come to the point at once,
and so I want to know if you and have set-
tled it yet ?”’

“Settled it! Settled what?’’ Everard asked,
and his father replied:

“Don’t be a fool and puton girlish airs. Marry-
ing is as much a matter of business as anything
else, and we may discuss it just the same. You
don’t suppose me in my dotage, that I have not
seen what isin everybody’s mouth. Your devyo-
tion to Beatrice and her readiness to receive it—
wait till ’m through,” he continued, authori-
tatively, as he saw Everard about to speak. ‘I
like the girl; have always liked her, though she
is a wild, saucy thing, but that will correct itself
in time. Your mother believed in_her fully, and
she knew what was in women. She ho you
would marry Bee some day. I have always hoped
so too, and nowlam sureof it, and what I wish
to say is this: You may think you must wait till
you get your profession, but there is no need of
that at all. You are twenty-two; Bee is twenty-
three, and time she was married, thoughshe does
not look her age; never should take her for over
twenty. You look her senior now. You have
matured wonderfully the last two years, and I
may say improved, ; time was when I could
hardly speak peaceably of you for the scrapes
you were eternally getting into, but you dropped
all that after your poor mother died. I was proud
of you at commencement. I.am proud of you
now, and I want you to marry at once. The house
needs a mistress; Rossie needs some woman there
besides the niggers, and I have fixed upon Christ-
mas as the pe or time for the wedding, so if you
have not settled it with Bee, do so at once.”

“But, father,’’ Everard gasped, with a face as
white as snow, “it is impossible that I should
marry Beatrice. I have never for a moment con-
sidered such a thing.”’

“The duse you haven’t,’”’ the judge exclaimed,

 

 

 

 

 

 

beginning to get angry. ‘Pray let me ask you
why you have mracing and chasing after her

ever since you came home, if you never consid-
ered the thing as you say ?_ Others have consid-
ered it, if you have not. Everybody thinks you
are to marry. her, and, by George, I won’t have
her compromised. No, I won’t. She could sue
you for breach of promise, and recover, too, with
all this dancing, and prancing, and seurripping
round the country. If you have not thought of
it, toe must think of it now. You surely like the
girl.”
He stopped to take breath, and Everard an-
swered him:
“Yes, father, I like her very_much, but not in
that Mahe as a wife,and I never can. Itis
impossible.”’
. “Why im ible? What do you mean?’ the
udge said, loudly and angrily. “Is there some-
dy else? Is it that yellow-haired hussy who
made those eyes at me, because, if it is, by Jove,
you are noson of mine, and you may as well un-
derstand it first as last. I’ll never sanction that,
never! Why don’t you answer me, and not stare
at me so like an idiot? Do you like that white-
livered Massachusetts woman_ better than Bea-
trice? Do you think her a fitter wife for you
and companion for Rosamond ?”’
Everard had never opened his lips to tell the
whole truth, but what his father said of Joseph-
ine sealed them tight; how could he declare it
then and there, and face the consequences? He
could not, but he could answer his father’s last
questions, and he did, and said:
_ “No, father, I do not think her a fitter compan-
ion for Rossie than Beatrice, and I do not like
her better.’
_ “Then what in thunder is in the way?” the
judge asked, slightly appeased. “Have you any
fears of Bee’s ae no? Icanassure you there.
I know she won't. I am as certain of if as that I
am living now.”
Suddenly there shot across Everard’s mind a
way of escape from the difficulty, a chance for a
‘lohger respite, and he said:

 

 

 

the September days went by, and October came | had

 

 

 

“Tf I were to ask Bee to marry me and she re-

fused would you be satisfied?”

“With your Yes, but I tell you she won’t re-
fuse. I know it, and don’t you ask her unless you
intend to stick to it like a man,” the judge re-
plied, as he rose to end the conference.

“T shall ask her, and to-night,’ was Everard’s

low-spoken answer, which reached his father’s
ears, and sent him straight to Elm Park.
_ Always outspoken the judge plunged at once
into the object of his call, and told the young
lady in plain terms What his wife’s wishes with
regard to her had been and what his wishes were,
too. Hedid not tell her that Everard was com-
ing to plead his own cause, or that a word had
ever passed between himself and his son upon
the subject. He thought better not to do that
lest she should sus that there was some coer-
cion in the matter, but he told her what he him-
self desired, and what Rosamond desired, and
what he ho she too was not averse to. Bea-
trice was wholly taken by surprise. At first she
fancied the old judge might be proposing for her
himself, but when she found it was for his son
he was speaking, a faint flush of half pleasure,
half indignation suffused her face, and turning
upon him, she said:

Dol understand that Everard has sent you
here to say all this tome? I thought young men
usually spoke for themselves in this country.”

He saw he had blundered somehow, and tried
to explain that he had reason to believe his son
was coming,

“Yes, Lamsure he is from some things I hear
—some things which have come under my ob-
servation,’ he said, “and I was so anxious that
he should be successful—that I came first, with-
out his knowledge atadL, and I begin to think I
have made a mess of it; but don’t blamethe boy;
he is not in fault. LIonly want to tell you I am
more than willing that you should be my daugh-
ter. I desire it greatly. I hope you understand
me.”

She did understand him, and half mechanically
thanked him for his interest in her, but treated
the whole thing as impossible. Everard never
could think of her, so different from him, and his
senior too... Why, Rosamond was more suitable
for him ; he better by far waitfor her, he said; but
in her heart there was Something which pleaded
strongly for the yous man, should he come to
speak for himself, and the judge detected it, and
felt sure that all was safe, even if he had made a
horrid mess of it as he kept assuring himself he
. He was very gracious to Everard at dinner,
and paid him the compliment of consulting him
on some business matter, but Everard was too
much pre-occupied to heed what he was saying,
and declining the dessert excused himself from
the table and went to his own room.

Never since his ill-starred marriage had he felt
so troubled and perplexed as now, when the fruit
of his wrong doing was staring him so broadly
a the face. ea father oe ak meee

nim in peace until he proposed rice, he
knew, and unless he confessed everything to his
father, and threw himself upon his mercy, there
was but one course left him to pursue. Tell Bea-
trice the whole story, without the slightest pre-
varication, and then go through the farce of
offering himself to her, who must, of course,
refuse. This refusal he could report to his father,
who would not blame him, and so a longer pro-
bation would come to himself. :

In his excitement he did not stop to consider
what a cowardly thing it was to throw the re-
sponsibility upon a girl, and make her bear the
burden for him. To do him justice, however, we
must say, that had he for a moment supposed
Beatrice cared for him as his father believed she
did, he would never have gone to insult her with
an offer she could-not accept. But he did not.
He and Bee were friends, dear friends, and no-

thing more, he kept assuring himself, when at
last he rode slowly down the road in the direc-

tion of the Elms. ‘ ‘ i

Beatrice was at home and half expecting him,
and that, gem accounted for the elegant sim-

licity of her dress. She had somehow, divined

is growing dislike to anything like overdress of
any kind, and she wore now a rich heavy black
silk, relieved only by pink coral pin and ear-
rings, and dainty laee ruffles at her throat and
wrists. There was @ white rose im her hair.
and in her-eyes, usually Of ingschief and
fun, there was a softs » eae. whieh
made her very beautiful’ atid \attyactive as she
went forward to receive her visitor, and told him
she was glad tosee him. .. “©

He knew she was tiful and sweet, and all
that was lovely and ble in womanhood, but
she was not for him. Bhe, nor. 4 like her,
could ever be his wife. | He 2 that. im-
possible: had by his dwn act put such as she
was far out of his reach. © sh :

When he saw her standingj\thefe under the
chandelier, so graceful and lady-like, and heard
the well-bred tones of her voice and remernber-
ed how pure and good she was, I do not say that
no thought or feeling stirred within him, as to
what might have been but for that fatal night of
two years and more ago. If thatnight never
been, if there was no Josephine in the way, he
might in time have come te sagjin earnest to this
true, spotless girl, what now was but acruel jest,
if she cared for him. And she did care, more than
she knew herself, for the handsome, dignified
young man, who latterly had grown beyond her
in everything, even to years, if the seeming were
taken into account. The Fejee missionary, whose
name she saw so often in the papers, and who
had recently been removed to a more elegible
field, was scarcely remembered now, except when
she opened the little mother-of-pearl box where
was a lock of light brown hair, and a badly taken
photograph of a young, clerical-looki man,
with a collar so high and so sharp that his ears
seemed in danger of amputation, and a faded
pond lily, given the day she told him no, and
with his Kiss, the first andlast, upon her forehead,
sent him away to the girl among the Vermont
hills, with the glasses and the brown alpaca dress.
There was a similarity between this day and
that, for then it had been midsummer in a New
England valley, and the scent of the roses and
the water lilies was everywhere. Now it was
November, and the misty night was over all, and
only hot-house flowers diffused their odor
through the room, but somehow their perfume
took the girl back to the summer of lon
ago, and there came to her a soft gentleness o
manner, and a feeling thatshe would nota second
time throw away @ happiness if it were offered to
her. Something told her that Everard had cometo
speak for himself, and though she played with
him for a while, and kept him away from the
goal to which she felt sure he was eprcoeening:
she let him reach it at last, or rather he reach
it in spite of her, leaped suddenly to it in fact,
and began, sepa

“Beatrice, I have come to say something seri-
ous to ee to-night and I want you to stop jest-
ing and beas much in earnestas I am, for I—I
am terribly in earnest for once in my life. Bee—
I—I feel as if I were going to be hung and do the
deed myself.’’

It was a curious way of beginning to make love,
and Bee could no more help laughing merrily
than she. could have helped her breathing. But
the laugh hurt Everard, whose face was white
as marble now and whose voice shook as he con-
tinued:

‘Bee, lam going to telb you something——-going
to ask you something—going toask you to be my
wife, but you must refuse.”

It was an odd my of putting it, and not at all
what Everard had intended todo. He meant to
tell her first and offer himself afterward as a
mere form, but in his agitation and excitement he
had just reversed it,—had told her he was there
to ask her to marry him and she must tell him
no! There had beenasudden kindling in Bee’s
eyes and an added fiush in her cheek, but that
po quickly away, and a look of seorn sprang
(0 her eyes as she drew back from him and said,
“You presume much on ny good nature, when
you tell me in one instant that you propose ask-
ing me to be your wife and néxt that I must re-
fuse you if you do.* What reason have you to
think I -would accept you, pray?”

He knew she was indignant and justly so, and
he answered her with such a pleading pathos in
his voice as disarmed her at once of her wrath.

“Don’t be angry with me, Bee. I have com-
menced all wrong. I believe my mindis not quite
straight. Idid not come to insuit you. I came
because I must come. I want you for a friend,
such as I have not in all the world. I want your
advice and sympathy. I want—oh, I am the
most wretched person living.”

And he seated himself upon the sofa, and sat
with his face buried in his hands, while Beatrice
stood looking at him a moment; then, going for-
ward she laid her_hand softly on his head and
said, “What is it, Everard? What is it you wish
to tell me, and why must I refuse you?’’

Atthe last words Everard looked quickly up

 

into the truthful eyes confronting him, and as he
looked there dawned upon him a sudden revela,
tiou which caused him to exclaim involuntarily-
“Oh, Bee, you make me wish I were dead. Sit
down beside me and listen to all I have to tell.”

She sat down beside him, while her Maltese
kitten crept up to her shoulder and nestled pur-
ring there, and with one hand she fondled and

atted that, while the other lay motionless in her

ap as she heard the story which Everard told

her in full, concealing nothing where he was con-
cerned, but shielding Josephine as far as was pos-
sible. Rosamond’s noble sacrifice of her hair was
explained and her mistake about Joe Fleming,who
in her imagination still existed somewhere in
whiskers and _ tall boots, and was the evil genius
of Everard’s life. Here Beatrice laughed—a real
merry laugh like herself. It was the first sound
she had uttered through the telling of the story,
and it loosened the bond she had felt tightening
around her heart and almost stopping her breath.
She could talk now; the first bitter pang was
over, and she questioned Everard rapidly with
regard to every particular ef his marriage, and
the family, and the girl. Where was she now and
what was she like?

“You have seen the picture, Bee,” he said. ‘I
showed it to you once two years ago in the gar-
den, that day I broke my head, and you said she
looked asif she might wear cotton lace, while
mother, to whom I showed it, too, hinted at dol-
lar jewelry, and Rossiesaid she looked as if she
were a sham.”

Here Everard laughed himself, but there was
more of bitterness than mirth in it, and Beatrice
sane, too, as she said:

*That was rather hard—cotton lace, dollar jew-
elry, and a sham, though, after all, Rossie’s criti-
cism was really of the most co uence, if true;
perhaps itis not. Have you her picture now ?”’

_ He passed it to her, and with a shrewd woman’s
intuition, quickened by actual knowledge, Bea-
trice felt that all was true, and pitied him so
much that for the time she quite forgot the little
wrench there had been in her heart and to her

ride when the hope which had been porting

here was suddenly torn up by the roots. hat
was her pain to his? Nothing worth the name,
she said to herself, and her first womanly instinct

was to help and comfort this man who had brought
his secret to her.

“Ned,” she said to him, and the name, now so
seldom used, took her back to the days when she
first came from Franceand played and quarreled
with him. It made her his sister again, and as
such she spoke. “Ned, Iam so sorry for you;
sorrier than I can express, and I want to help you
some way, and I think it must be through Jose-
phine. She is your wife, and by your own show-
ing you were quite as much in fault as she.’’

‘Yes, quite,” and Everard shivered a little, for
he ace what was coming.

“Well, then,” Beatrice went on, “éught you not
to make the best of it? You took her for better
or worse, knowing what you were doing. You
loved her then. Can y u not doso again? Is it
not your duty to try ?”’

“Oh, , you do not know, you do not under-
oe, She is not like you, nor Rossie, nor mo-

er.”’

“Well, ~ to make her like us, then,’ Beatrice
replied, and her own voice trembled a little. “If
her surroundings are not such as please you, re-
move her from them at once. Recognize her as
your wife. Bring her home to Forrest House and
I will stand her friend to the death.” :

Bee. was doing splendidly, and Everard knew
it, and felt her nobleness of character as he never
had felt it before. She would stand by Josephine
to the death! Even with that stab in her heart.
of which he had caught a passing glimpse, and
Bee’s influence was worth more than that of the
whole town. Oh, if he could have felt any love
or even desire for Josephine, it would haveseemed
easy to acknowledge his marriage, with Bee’s
hopeful words in his ear and Bee’s strong nature
to k him, but, alas, he did not. He had no
love, no desire for her; he was happier away from
her—happier to live his present hfe with Beatrice
and Rossie, and besides that, he could not brin
her home; his father would never permit that,
and would probably turn him from the door if he
knew of the alliance. This Bee did not know,
but he told her of the great aversion his father
conceived for the far whom he had that very day
stigmatized as the yellow-haired hussy from
Massachusetts, “and after that,do you think I
can tell him ?’’ he asked. j

“Tt will be hard, I know,”’ Beatrice replied, “but
it seems your only course, if he insists upon your
marrying me.’

“Bat if Ltell him you refused me, it may make
a difference, and things can go on as they are un-
til I get my profession.” Everard pleaded with a
shrinking which he knew was coward!
which the telling his father might involve.

“Even then you are but putting off the evil day,
and a thing concealed grows bigger and bigger
as time goes on,” Bee said... “You must confess
it some time, and why not doit now and know the
worst there is to know. At the most your father
can but turn you from his door, and if he does
that take your wife and go somewhere else and
begin the world anew. You are young, and the
world is all before you, and if there is any true
womanhood in Josephine, and Iam sure there is,
it will assert itself when she knows all you have
lost for her. She will grow to your standard
she must. She has a sweet, childish face, and
must have a loving, affectionate nature. Give
her a chance, Everard, to show wnat she is.”

This giving her a chance was just what Ever-
ard dreaded the most. So long as his. life with
Josephine was in the future, he could be tolerably
content, and even happy, but when it looked him
square in the face, as something which might
soon be, he shrank back from meeting it.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

DUBLIN DAN;

 

THE ROSE OF BALLYHOOLAN.

BY BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG.
AUTHOR OF THE POPULAR
“SACK HARK AWAY STORIES.”

 

(“Dublin Dan” was commenced in No. 15. Back Nog. can be
had of any News Dealer in the United States. |

CHAPTER IX,
“rH RESCUER.”

The sun was setting in the heavens, red _as fire
as the troopers with their prisoner, reached a por-
tion of the turnpike to Ennisfallen, known as the
cross-road, | :

At this junction three roads branched off hike the
points of a triangle. ;

“Halt!” cried Major Hampton, who was looking
for the figure-head which ought to have denoted in
which direction they ran. .

We say ought advisedly, for though the post still
stood, the board had been torn down.

“Confound the tricks of these Irish rebels,” said
the English officer, “there was a board here this
morning, telling us which road went to Ennisfallen,
which to Ballyhoolan, and which to Bally—some
where else.” ; q :

He looked round in perplexity, for not being ac-
customed to the country he could not tell which of
the roads to take. i
oo there was a loud report from behind a

1edge. :

One of the trooper’s horses fell heavily to the
ground, injuring the leg of the rider.

Dan, whose hands were not bound, sought the
knife which Pat Leeson had put in his breast, and
opening it, cut the rope which bound him.

Without a moment’s hesitation he darted across
the road and down through a gap in the hedge. |

“Fire,” exclaimed the major, discharging his pis-
tolin his direction, while his example was followed
by the remaining troopers. :

But their shots being directed at random, did no
damage to aught except a hawthorn tree which
was just beginning to throw out a few buds.

A volley from behind the hedge, however, showed
the major that the enemy was in force, for his own
horse and that of the second trooper fell mortally
wounded. : :

It seemed to be the object of the rescuing party to
kill the horses and not the riders. ‘

This, at least, would prevent immediate pursuit.

The major was a brave man, and disengaging
himself from his horse he ran to the gap in the
hedge, sword in hand.

Passing through, he saw no one.

A narrow strip of meadow land, led to along belt
of wood into whose dark recesses no doubt the at-
tacking party had nenetrated after rescuing the
prisoner. i 5

Away beyond were the hills bathed in a flood of
golden sunlight, those hills which so often in Ire-
land history had proved an impenetrable strong-
hold for the persecuted patriots,

from all f

He was joined by the trooper whose name was
Johnson, the other one having sustained such in-
juries to his ankle, as prevented him from moying.

“This isa nice state of things,” exclaimed the
major, “we'll have to hang some of these rapperees
before we get the country settled.”

“Private ‘Turner can’t walk, sir; the three horses
are dead; shall you and I pursue the insurgents,”
asked the trooper.

“Confound it, no,” answered Major Hampton,
petulantly, “Do you think I am going to bother
myself by going across country after alot of bog
trotters’ who know every inch of these woods?
Me aces a squadron to-morrow and scour the

rilis.

“What are we going to do to get home, major?”

‘You had better stop here with Turner and Ill
walk the four miles between here. and Ennisfallen,
so as to send you asgistance. But which is the
road? I may go wrong $nd find myself in some in-
fernal place or another after dark, with no possi-
ble means of getting to barracks in time for mess,
and this is quest-night. I have triends coming to
dine at the mess, on honor, foreign service is better
than this.”

“I hagree with you, sir,” said the English trooper.

While the major was hesitating which road he
should take, Barney. the half-witted boy, came
along.

“Hi! boy!’ exclaimed Ma!or Hampton.

_ Barney eres and there was a merry twinkle
in his eye as he saw the dead horses, but he did not
appear in the least surprised.

Nor was there any reason why he should be.

He had been with the rescue party when the shots
were fired by Patsey Leeson and his friends, which
enabled D to escape, and he had been especially
sent as a spy bythe “boys” to reconnoiter and bring
them what news he could of the soldiers,

Now, though soft, Barney was not such a fool as
& great many people took him to be.

What is it yer honor wants with me?” he asked.
“Vl give you half a crewnif you'll guide me to
the barracks at Ennisfallen.”

Fork out and its money will do that same,” was
the ready answer.

The major gave hima half crownwhich he pock-
eted with a chuckle.

‘Can I borrow_a horse about here?” continued
the eros ee did not relish the idea of walkingif
he could ride,

““There’s a bit of a squireen in the house close for-
ninst yez,” replied "Niamey peinting to a house
about a quarter of a mile off, nearly hidden by a
thick clump of trees,

“Take me there.”

Barney set off at a quick pace, closely followed by
the officer. and in about five minutes reached a
wretched tumble-down house. Before the door was
a heap of manure, in which sundry pigs were root-
ing with evident delight. :

..Where’s the horse?” inquired Major Hampton.

There,” answered Barney, indicating a eorner
of a barn-yard with his finger, ‘‘an’ be dad, yer wel-
come to him, even if the squireen is from home,”
The major approached the horse, which was
standing in a melancholy manner under a tree, his
legs gathered together and his back humped up
like a camel.”

“Why, what do you mean by this?’ asked the
major, after a slight inspection of the animal.
“He’s blind, he’s lame, spavined and knuckled,
and it’s my opinion he hasn’t long to live, Whatis
the use of a horse like this to me?”

“It’s a sorry sort of a baste anyway,” replied
Barney, “an’ it’s me belafe he’s only walking about
to save funeral expenses, but sure, yer honor didn’t
say you wanted a race-horse, or maybe I’d have got
you.one.”

“Confound your impudence!” cried the major,
“if I thought you’d done this on purpose I’d give
nee soundest thrashing you ever hadin your

ife,

“No body ever hits Barney,” replied the lad. “I’m
not quite right here, they say,” tapping his fore-
head, “‘and the boys all respect a natural.” 7

“Well, well, for Heaven’s sake, lead on, I will
walk,” replied the major, impatiently.

Barney said no more, butstarting out at a quick
pace which gave the somewhat effeminate major a
good deal of trouble to keep up with him, he struck
again into the main road, -

For an hour they continued to travel without a
word being exchanged between them.

The sun sank behind heavy banks of. clouds and
the shades of night were fast falling.

Still there were no signs of Ennisfallen, and the
soldiers’ comfortable quarters were as for off an-
parently as ever. ,

it was rapidly growing dark. |

‘I say, boy,” shouted the major, “are you sure
you have taken the right road?”

Wasn’t Iborn in these parts?” returned Bar-
ney, ‘‘an’ is itlikely ’'d miss me way? We're takin’
the short cut, major darlint, an’ ye'll soon be with
the persecutin’ redcoats, asthore.” :
Major Hampton was forced to be content with
this reply which, however, was not wholly satisfac-
tory to him. Rok ’ :

He thought the lad was trifling with him, but he
could not be sure, They had gone several miles
and ought to be in sight of Ennisfallen by this
time, yet he did not like to refuse to go any far-

ther,

It he dispensed with the boy’s services, he would
be as much adrift as ever, and it was searcely likely
thathe was being ledintoan ambush. The news
rom other parts of the country, though, was
grave. ;

Insurrectionary movements had broken out in
Tipperary and Waterford, fresh troops had been
ordered to sail at an hour’s notice from England,
attacks had been made on police barracks and it
was reported that Stephens was in Dublin with
Flood and O’Brien, plotting under the noses of the
authorities.

Suddenly Barney stopped,

“Bedad, major darlint,” he exclaimed, “ye’ll have
to mind where ye place yer brogues now, for we’re
goin’ to cross the bog of Dunson. Hould your
whistand foller me close. Would you plaze to take
the laste bit of a taste of potheen which never paid
the excise a penny of duty ?”

The major declined the offer.

“Small power to ye,” replied Barney. “But I’)
take ashmell of the liquor and light me doodeen, I
don’t like the night vapors of the bogs anyway.

He raised a flask to his lips, afterward lighting a
dirty black clay pipe with which in his mouth he
again set forward, the officer now following him
with difficulty.

The path through the bog was a narrow one and
though the major followed Barney closely in the
imperfect light, he now and again plunged into the
treacherous morass, narrowly escaping being sub-
merged.

Only one born in the country, like the half-witted
boy, could have possibly penetrated the dangerous
intricacies. ; 5 j :

All at once Major Hampton saw a light flickering
over the marsh.

“Boy,” he eried, “there is a man with a lan-
tern. Pll appeal to him, for ‘pon honor I don’t
know where you are taking me.’

“Where is the man ?” replied Barney.

“Can’t you see? straight ahead.”

“Follow me and I'll lead: you right as I said I
would and no word of alie about that,’ said Bar-
at “But if you want to go after any one else
Pil go home.” ;

“Go home,” answered the major,savagely. “Ill
go after the man. 5

“Bedad, an’ yer to have a long chase I’m thinkin’;
good-night,” cried Barney.

He sprang forward with the agility of an antelope
and was: quickly out of sight. Tothe left of the
major was certainly what appeared to be a lantern,
and his imagination might be forgiven for think-
ing that the weird spectral figure of a man earried
it. The light danced and flickered over the morass,
now coming near, now dancing away again.

Stepping aside from the path the officer essayed
to persue it. .

No sooner had he left the path than he fell into
the bog upto his neck, the lantern vanished fora
moment, re-appearing some distance off.

Mocking laughter rang in his ears.

This probably proceeded from Barney who knew
well enough thatthe light was nothing more than
that miasmatic exhibition known as Will-o’-the-
wisp or Jack-o’-Lantern. Recovering his position
on the path with. difficulty, cold, tired, muddy, and
discouraged, the major cursed his folly.

“What a fool I must have been,” he remarked,
“that’s evidently the dead man’s light. Where is
the boy. Here Barney, or whatever your name is,
[ll give you a pound to get me out of this.”

But his opportunity had eae by... Barney had
gone away, and the English officer might live or die
for what he cared. ,

The next half hour was consumed by Major
Hampton in crawling along on his hands and
knees, slipping into the bog, getting out again,
treading carefully one foot first to try the ground
and the other dragged cautiously afterit. .

It seemed an age of peril to him that journey
through the swamp, and when at last he did by
great good fortune touch dry ground he was deeply
grateful.

He was out of the swamp, but where was he?

That it was impossible to tell. The moon had not
yet risen, and all he could do was to walk straight
on until he came to some house or cottage, where
he could obtain assistance or at least information,

Plunging into the darkness and animated by
knowing that he could now tread without danger
of being ingulfed in the yielding bog, he began to
ascend what seemed to him to be a hilly country. |

For along, weary while he trudged along until
his powers of endurance showed symptoms of
giving out.

Many a stifled curse upon the country_ escaped
his lips, and many a fervent wish arose in his mind
that he was once more in his comforfable quarters
at Ennisfallen or the Curragh of Kildare.

“Tf this is hunting Irish rebels.” he muttered,
“Tve had enough of it, and I’d rather resign my
commission than go in for any more of such in-

 

glorious warfare.”
His remarks were brought to an abrupt conclu-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PE,

ear ay